


Roscoe for the Rescue, Not

by Keitmeg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Claiming Bites, F/M, Headaches & Migraines, Horror, Hurt Stiles, Lurking Doesn't Pay Bills so I'm Giving Derek a Job, M/M, Magical stiles, Mean Derek, Mechanic Derek, Neck Kissing, Soulmates, Stiles Attracts Supernatural Creatures, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Passes out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keitmeg/pseuds/Keitmeg
Summary: “Fine, I’m getting off your property.” He lifts up and his knee cracks, “I’ll walk back, no need to worry about me walking back by myself, in the woods, in the middle of the night with possible mountain lions lurking by.”ORStiles stumbles upon a pack of Werewolves lead by Derek Hale who looks entirely human. His relationship with every one of them grows deeper because he's still unaware of who they truly are. Stiles' past, pains and emotions are revealed slowly throughout the story, along with how his relationship with Derek Hale becomes something more than he can understand or explain.





	Roscoe for the Rescue, Not

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Newport Beach Werewolf report and Falling for Mr. Werewolf story.

Stiles Stilinski was born over in Gilbert, Arizona, to a father who works as the Maricopa County sheriff, an army veteran and a proud citizen, and to a mother who had died after losing her battle with an illness when Stiles was only ten. The sheriff never remarried, and Stiles knows that despite what his father says about work piling up at the station, giving him no time for romance, the reason had had to do something with his promise to Claudia at her deathbed to never remarry. He loved her so. And Stiles grew up with a principle, a way of life leading his actions –he’d never marry someone until he’s certain he is ‘totally, completely, and passionately’ in love.

He’s always lived in Gilbert’s lands, grew accustomed to the coarse-grained rocks and u-shaped dales, he’s grown red in the nape and although he knows the value of sunscreen in a place like his hometown which usually throws the standard level of hot weathers down the gauntlet, the heedlessness still takes him by surprise sometimes.  

 

Stiles’ been driving towards the Death Valley wanting some me time after his mid-terms –those sucked donkey balls, man– when a destination misread found him stranded at the skirts of Moreno Valley with a coughing engine, signifying a car that has had enough already. He starts the ignition again, blowing out a sigh of relief when it revs, but when he stomps on the accelerator, the car Jostles. He props his head outside the window, peeking at the back tire and finding it buried under layers of heavy mud. He rolls his eyes dramatically and returns back inside, attempts to give the car another few tries, not long and smoke starts coming out from under the hood, this time, he throws his hands in the air, despairingly.

“Great.”  He huffs. “Just what I needed.”

 

A beat-up pick-up truck heads his way ten minutes later, he’s called them in after a couple failed attempts to push the Jeep and get the tire out of the hole, and he is a little  relieved they didn’t take longer because the sun was already setting beyond the horizon. And then a bald headed middle-aged man with a red Mustache and a fat belly which the white shirt underneath the sleeveless denim jacket has ridden up above the navel, showing a long trail of red abdominal hair, hops out of the driver’s seat, Justin work boots land on the mud, spraying his jeans which he has tucked inside the boots up to the knees.

“I’m Stewart.” He announces with a gruff voice, a calloused hand already reaching out for a handshake.

Stiles gulps back the giggle he wanted to make (because _Stewart_? The guy looks a like a walking monolith) in favor to shake that hand, “Stiles. I called.”

“I’m here.” The man nods, retracting his hand to rest it on his hip. “Now let’s take a look at your car.”

Stewart half glares at Stiles after the first assessment of what is duct-taped under the propped hood, and Stiles shrugs half-heartedly in response, Stewart probes Roscoe’s insides with a crease over his forehead.

“How does it look?” Stiles inquires, peeking at oil-covered parts that make his car.

“Bad.” Stewart grunts, now lifting off and putting the hood down, closing it with a click. “I’ll get it towed back to Dave’s, the guy’s gonna take it from there but I gotta be honest with you, the car is in bad shape, all duct tape and safety pins inside.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his chin, yea, tell him something he doesn’t know.

“The boys at the garage will take care of it for ya,” he promises, “will be as good as new.”

“Is it gonna be long though?” Stiles wonders, “I have a schedule to follow.”

Stewart lowers his eyes and furls his lips in thought, “That ain’t up to me to decide.” He concludes, “Dave’s the mechanic.”

 

Unlike what he’s been promised, Dave isn’t any use either.

He tells Stiles about the parts his car needs that aren’t in store and need approximately a week to get shipped in from somewhere else, and Stiles doesn’t have that kind of free time. He is then given the directions to another mechanic in another town, Dave whips up a slapdash work of a couple of car parts glued together to get Stiles’ car moving at least until he gets to the said town.

 

A grey Porsche whooshes past his Roscoe **-** a blue 1980 Jeep CJ5 parked on the lane **-** splashing the side of his vehicle with mud which the sudden bout of rain brought on by the recent summer storm left in puddles, and, with two flailing arms, Stiles fumbles with the map he’s opened after pulling over on the dirt road to read off his next destination, the splashing incident having startled him. By the time he crunches the road map into a hazard ball and tucks in into the empty passenger seat, the Porsche has already gone, leaving only a cloud of thin steam wafting in the air in its wake. Doesn’t mean he won’t curse the dear life out of the damn driver. He hated douche-bags. Blondes whipping around a blind curve at eighty were douche-bags.

He relieves himself by a tree before returning to his car, driving towards the town which he is sure he is only a few minutes away from now.

 

A board that reads ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills speed limit 40 mph’ reflects the headlights of his Jeep, and Stiles finally, finally feels the knot in his chest undo, he wasn’t going to be stranded in the open when it’s dark outside, and hopefully he won’t have a repeat of this afternoon what with his car coming to a choking stop. Stiles has already called his father after steering off the lane, letting him in on the sudden situation putting a crimp in his plans, and receiving paternal advice on staying alert and focused, and then good night wishes. He is coming off the exit of a road connector when the light flickers red, so he brings the car to a smooth stop, and while waiting **–** drumming thumbs on the steering-wheel and bobbing his head along with the music blaring off the radio, he ducks a little to see if the light has turned green but the stars blazing the sky catch his eyes, and he stares, whisky-pupils blown away.

Among the darkened shapes of pine trees lined along the mountain foot at each side, Stiles catches sight of something moving just beyond the length of where the headlights reach. He narrows his eyes, zeroing in on the darkness. Maybe a gust of wind caused the sudden tree movement so Stiles relaxes, albeit a little, the image of a mountain lion jumping at the roof of his baby car didn’t set will with him. He looks at the red light with a frown, he spent the entire day driving, he is hungry, and tired, the last thing he needs is his mind playing tricks on him or the traffic light giving him attitude.

And then it happens, so out of the frigging blue, a group of four, large, 6.5 feet tall, four-legged creatures shoot out of the trees along the road. Stiles chucks his head back in reflex and parts his lips, almost throwing up his heart. “What the hell?” He ducks again for another inspection but notices the light has turned green, so he quickly gets the car moving again and makes the left turn. Just out of curiosity –because he almost had a heart-attack back there, he looks through the rear view mirror, and this time his heart almost lapses down his throat. The beasts are running right behind the speeding vehicle, and Stiles sits up in instant horror, eyes glancing at the road and then back at the back windshield, fist clenching on the wheel. He steps on the accelerator and speeds up to 70, not caring about night patrols pulling him off-road for breaking traffic rules, not even caring if the car’s hood went aflame, he needed to get away from those things that have taken a liking to chasing his Jeep as though it was a toy, and since he can see signs of a high traffic part of the road now, he would need more than patrols to get him to stop. The wolves then draw back and stop following him, and through the rear-view, he sees another wolf-shaped creature, this one bigger though, standing at the forefront of his cronies and watching him drive off.

Stiles’ face is covered with a bead of sweat, his back and inner thighs drenched with it, and he is going out of his way to make it sound less like he peed himself. He knows what he saw, he knows that four and later five wolves who could stand on their haunches chased him in the empty road, they probably were in a dire need to dine on something, and he happened to be the perfect prey in the right time and right place, but again, what the hell! Those weren’t usual animals, unless dogs grew extra 260 pounds overnight, that didn’t add up. So, what the hell!

Well, at least a mountain lion pulling a Chuck Norris on his Jeep has been avoided.

What can’t be avoided, it seems, is his car coming to another coughing stop.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he marvels, his hands slowly lifting off the wheel, “you have got be kidding me!”

Only upturn of this odd journey, he thinks, has to be the neon sign of a motel his car stopped at.

 

 

 

The motel’s diner was anything but fancy, and he’s seen enough shabby fast-food eateries through the day filled to the brim with gourmands to last him a lifetime, but this one actually caught on. The owner has to be an exultant animal-skinning kind of guy because no one hangs faux polled thunder-house calves onto papered walls and gets away without some serious quibbling from the on-comers. Stiles picked the corner booth, nodded his head to a bleached-blonde for the menu. The food was good, to be fair, rancid, but still good. Probably why diners were going 'paleo' on the food and not bitching about the wall décor.

Lying on a bed that isn’t his in a room that also isn’t his is a novelty to him, and in the stillness of the night safe only for the crickets on dry grass buzzing like phone polls, Stiles can slowly feel the pointed silent gradually intensifying and that is something he can never get used to. Same as he can’t get used to his father keeping secrets from him. For a while now, when he was no longer a freshman, old enough to make his own decisions and even be consulted with, Stiles started to notice things –the way his father would avoid eye-contact when asked about Claudia’s past, or the spiral scar on Stiles’ forearm. Or even the calls the Sheriff’s been receiving lately about a possible transfer. So to give the two of them some space, this impromptu road trip happened.

 

An owl ululates in the far distance and the sound reminds Stiles of a howl, howling is usually related to wolves, big hairy wolves that chase after Jeeps build from the ground up with nothing by duct tape – “Oh my God, I can’t.” He sprints out of the bed and paces. He’s been on the bed with his shoes still on, staring at the ceiling with his hands crossed over his chest, fingers drumming on one another, that obviously did nothing but get his brain gears wheeling. And just to spite him, maybe, because whoever brought him here has not obviously had enough yet, he hears a reverberating howl coming from those treed mountains, disembodied yet still terrifying. The scar on Stiles’ arm throbs like it’s been hit with a train, Louisville slugger hand nothing on the resultant brunt. Stiles nurses his arm to his chest with a soft whimper, it’s the worst pain he’s had in years, excluding his occasional migraines. Stiles’ vision tunnels in on the window and soon he is taking a nosedive to the frayed rug.

 

_Several smoke-covered hands reach out of a ten-inch opening through perpendicular metal bars. Horrified screams echo about cutting the dreadful silence. Flames eat those hands, and what’s outside._

 

 

“…right? Are you alright?”

Stiles feels a hand on his shoulder shaking him, and he groans in protest.

“He smells funny.” such a modulated voice, a girl’s. And, lady, that’s rude.

Stiles pries his eyes open, it’s only a blur at first but nothing a few more blinks won’t fix. He tries to make out the hazy forms before him, finding five people hovering, peering at him with wary eyes. He recoils to the back with a little yelp, sight refocusing at last. There’s a bulky, black-haired, green-eyed man with rumpled stubble, dressed in a maroon Henley and tight jeans. Another at his right, short, brown-eyed, tan-skinned teenager with a crooked chin dressed in a plain beige T and black pants. Stiles glances over at the blonde girl at his left, can’t help it when his eyes travel to her cleavage but her daunting smirk makes him look away at the tall, blue-eyed, curly-haired guy standing hunched beside a dark-skinned, well-built guy, and another blonde dude standing at the rear, keeping a little distance between him and the rest.

“Who are you?” Stiles manages after a large gulp, and for some reason it comes out hoarse, and he is slightly embarrassed. 

"The owners of this place?"  

Stiles looks around to assess his whereabouts. All he can see in the darkness around is the trees clapping and staring intently back at him, and the street lights a couple of miles away looking like spilled pearls. "Perhaps you can tell me where exactly  _is_ this place?" Stiles asks, shoulders going up very slowly, "I think I'm lost." And quickly scratches his nape with a small hint of a smile. 

"Lost?" The Blonde guy at the rear echoes, "as in walked around, climbed up that hill to see the town in the middle of the night under the little stars, and lost your track there and  _got lost_ , kind of  _lost_?" He adds. Yea figured, because guys who look like douche-bags always have saucy as well as snide remarks ready up their sleeves. And why does he look familiar anyway?

"What can I say, I'm poetic." Stiles tells him in monotone.

"Well, nothing really poetic about getting lost in the woods." The big black guy huffs and his friend giggles, obviously liking the comeback. 

"’Would say the same about your little group date going on here." Stiles motions at them with a flailing arm, "maybe we can light up a little bonfire too, do a voodoo dance, y'know, spice things up?" 

"Do your little dance at home." The curly-haired guy berates, seemingly annoyed, "don't you know this is private property?" 

Stiles looks minutely around and quickly wraps his arms around his chest, it escaped him earlier but it seems the woods drop cold after the sun sets. "How the hell did I get here?" He mumbles to himself and looks over at the ground now, "has anyone seen my phone? I promise I'll leave, I just need my phone." 

"How did you get here anyway?" The short guy asks now, worry latent in his voice.

Stiles doesn't acquiesce to answer, he just crouches down and dusts off the parts where he thinks he's just seen something flash and glitter.

"There's a wire wall just a couple of miles away, how did you get past it?" He asks again and crouches down as well to look with him for the phone.

Stiles looks up, bottom lip snaking between two rows of teeth, but he goes back to searching again, averting eye-contact; "to tell you the truth, I have no idea, and no don't look at me like that," he tells him after the other presses his lips and gives him the  _don't-bullshit-me-man_  face, "I'm the same as you, I swear. One second I'm at the motel and later I'm in the middle of the woods squabbling over pretty much nothing with a bunch of weirdos who like to role-play." 

"What’ you mean over nothing?" a new voice chides, and when Stiles follows the source with his eyes, he finds a redhead, whom he missed at first, squinting her eyes down at him pensively, "you're on a land that is protected with a wire wall, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, and you're only giving us bullshit on a silver platter," she is finding her manicured nails more interesting now as she stares at them, "you gotta give us more than that, or we'll call it trespassing and have the cops deal with you." 

"I have no interest in your little garden here.” He says, indigently. “I'd like to retrieve my phone and go back to my motel room –since all my stuff is there, then sleep and forget this night ever happened, thank you, very much." 

“Which motel are you staying in?” the bulky man, and most likely the least childish one of them, inquires.

Stiles narrows his eyes up at the man, “I literally just met you, a complete stranger,” he almost smiles in amusement, “wouldn’t you normally ask for a name first?”

“I just did.” The man counters, “The motel’s.”

Wow and here Stiles thought he was the least childish, forgot the part about a guy in his mid twenties hanging out with a group of teenagers past their curfew, “Does tact mean anything in your dictionary or is the term a little foreign to you?” Stiles muses, “poise, savoir faire? Ring any bells? Want me to continue? ‘cause I can.”

The man’s furrow deepens so Stiles lets go of a weary sigh and props on his haunches, “Fine, I’m getting off your property.” He lifts up and his knee cracks, “I’ll walk back, no need to worry about me walking back by myself, in the woods, in the middle of the night with possible mountain lions lurking by.”

The man flares his nostrils, “Scott,” he calls out, quietly; “go with him.”

The short guy’s eyes meet Stiles’ before he walks up to him. Stiles arches an incredulous brow at the green-eyed man, his index already going up to point at the dark-skinned, “what about The Honky Tonk Man over there?” he offers, “How much does he weigh? Does he do boxing” –he faces the guy in question– “you do boxing? You’re stoic, mixed martial arts? Lemme guess, Muay Thai?”

“You want to find out?” The man goads on, a tiny smirk taunts his lips and a trace of bunny teeth barely flashes.

Stiles cocks his head like a dog.

“Go!” The bulky man in the maroon Henley bellows, sending Stiles scurrying away, he stumbles on dead twigs with legs wobbling like a human Trolli, and Scott is soon in his tow.

 

“Subtle.” Stiles murmurs, trudging through the woods in a huff, “very, very subtle, Stilinski.”

“Were you hinting that I look weak?” Scott beside him squirms, doleful eyes parachuted by a messy fringe.

Stiles grinds into a halt, while the odd bunch made quite the joke out of his predicament, and it didn’t help that he was diving into a plethora of questions about just what in God’s name transpired before he landed face-first to the floor back at his motel room, Scott was the only one who actually showed concern, genuine concern. One thing, however, he feels his lapse in judgment has done to him, he has wronged Scott, he has unjustly, cruelly wronged Scott by picking up on the black guy’s muscled body and deeming it competent and that’s a one thing to do to a guy, but to actually word it as though rubbing in their face that they can’t be relied on? –Stiles cringes.

“Dude,” he lowers his head, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t… I’m just trying to stay alive, you know. No offense, I mean you look like an athlete, scout’s honor, but I’ve had a shitty day and you could not believe the things I’ve been through. I just thought if a mountain lion was the icing on the cake because I never thought this could get any worse, then I’d be better off having someone bigger than me fight it off.”

“It’s cool, man.” Scoot chuckles awkwardly, “look, I get it. I’ve lived here my whole life and I know how dangerous these woods are. I’d do the same if I were you and were new to this place, pick the biggest guy.”

“I know you’re trying to sound sympathetic but that sounded really dirty.” Stiles half stares at the other, sheer embarrassment tainting his features.

Scott realizes the innuendo and a blush flourishes on his tanned cheeks, “I didn’t even realize.”

 “Stiles,” Said guy states with a bright smile, palming out a hand for a shake, because somehow he feels like this guy can be trusted, even a possible friendship candidate, why not. “Stiles Stilinski.”

Scott takes that hand in his and shakes it, “Scott McCall.”

“So where’re you from?” Comes the question after they meander their way through the woods again, this time side by side.

“Oh, some boring town in Arizona,” Stiles replies, “very small, boring, did I say it’s small, not interesting.” They don’t have six five feet tall hairballs that jog under the moon, and apparently, nor to they have group dates in the deepest sides of the woods, or valleys, Gilbert has those only.

“Oh, Alan Gordon is from there.” Scott notes out.

“’You a fan of soccer?” Stiles questions, the tip of his foot kicks a pebble away.

“I like football.” Scott corrects on a nonchalant shrug, “But I play lacrosse at school.”

“Cool,” Stiles exclaims, “Defender?”

“Midfielder,” he interjects, “also captain of the team.”

“Would you look at that” Stiles snorts, smirking.

 

Scratch that, Scot is definitely best friend material. Although Stiles has to get him someday to watch Star Wars, why hasn’t Scott watched that masterpiece yet, Stiles can never understand.

“Well, this is my stop.” Stiles points a thumb over his shoulder as the two boys stand by a board that reads ‘The Mountain Lion's motel’ and he tries not to look horrified.

Scott peeks at the place, nose flaring for some reason, and then he looks back at Stiles, “alright then,” he starts, “I guess I should leave.”

Stiles smiles thinly. He is reminded of the dreary hours he’ll be spending cooped up inside that odorous room, and he isn’t excited about it. He thrusts his hands into the side pockets of his jeans and nods, tentatively. “Yeah.” He breathes out, “thanks for walking me back, you’re the only one who cared enough to do it, and sorry you have to go back by yourself.”

“Oh, my bike is parked just a couple of blocks from here,” Scott assures with those puppy eyes of his glinting. “So, um, I’ll see ya around, right?”

“I’m getting my car fixed then going back to Gilbert,” Stiles informs on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “so, no, you probably won’t see me around.”

Scott knits his brows together, “oh.” He almost turns around to leave but he quickly swivels around again and shakes his head, “Look, I don’t know if this is your thing but, um, we’re playing tomorrow, for charity, you should come.”

“Maybe I will, where’ you playing?” Stiles’ cat-like lips widen into a sheepish grin.

 

 

The wail of a siren jerks Stiles out of a dream, sending him reeling outside the bed. In alarm, he untangles himself from the sheets he’s brought down with him to the carpet, dashes to the window and perches there to see what’s going on. An ambulance has parked in the lot by the room next door; one male paramedic is talking to the owner –a fifty-year-old lady with a bird nest of a hair, as another two push a stretcher out of the aforementioned room. He remembers seeing next room’s resident around the parking lot, inside the diner as well, looked fit as a fiddle, resilient, but otherwise fine. So it doesn’t make sense that he is being loaded into the van in a mortuary bag. The man died, and Stiles, with just a wall separating them, did not realize.

Tugging at a new pair of pants from his back bag, Stiles heads to the bathroom to wash and change, he is going to get the car fixed today and by God, he is going to leave this wretched town.

Destiny, though, won’t have it.

The Hales Garage looks closed, unless Stiles’ definition of ‘closed’ goes beyond human perception, and there isn’t a note about ‘coming in five’ or a chart for opening and closing times, there is, however, an American flag fluttering on the roof of the place. The guy might be a pushover then, a handful of patriotism jargons and he might get twenty percent off. He lingers there just to be sure because he’s walked all the way here and he’s not going back, empty-handed, to a motel where a guy has just died. He ignores the part about the nightmare waiting for his bedtime and crosses the road, walks up to a kiosk whose owner is in no mood for greetings and clears his throat,

“Excuse me sir,” he starts, chin nodding towards the direction of the garage, “do you know when the garage opens?”

The vendor, a tetchy old man, Stiles can tell by the brisk way he tucks this morning’s newspapers in a box with a brow shot to his hairline, glances briefly at the garage and stuffs another stack of newspapers, facing stiles with the gray at his temple. “Doesn’t keep a regular timetable,” he offers, petulantly. And this is the part Stiles doesn’t get, the townspeople he’s met so far have acted as though he killed their beloved one in a past life, and he doesn’t know if it’s something in the water or if they’re simply rude by nature. “It’s close more times than open, guy’s good at what he does, but he’s a lazy bum, if you ask me.”

“Do you know when he opens?”

“I don’t keep a tally.” Old man replies.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes out though his nose, reining on his retorts because the man sounds like the kind who keeps a rifle under his counter and Stiles doesn’t want to find out. “Do you have a phone number?”

“’Not his keeper.” Old man grouses with a tone of someone who’s heard the reiteration of the question many times before.

Stiles flings the man a sardonic smile and swivels around, ready to leave when, surprise, surprise, the garage of the mechanic slides open with a noisy screech, and Stiles finds himself jogging towards it like a feast has descended from the heavens.

“Derek?” he reads the name off the paper given to him by Dave loud enough for whoever it is inside to hear, “Derek Hale?”

“Who’s asking?” Comes the familiar voice before the familiar man shows up behind a wall, dressed in a grey tank top and another pair of tight jeans.

Stiles’ arched eyebrows fall into a deep frown, “you.”

The other mimics his brow movement, “me.”

“You’re Derek Hale?” Stiles exclaims, tremulous voice almost cracking.

“Do you see anyone else here?” The said man counters, looks around to make a point, now facing away to grab an oil-covered cloth.

Stiles walks behind the man when he heads to a red Megane, “it’s ten” he reminds, “and a half, were you ever planning to open?”

“I just did.” Derek grits out, now bowing over the hood with the cloth in his back pocket.

Stiles shakes his head sadly and leans back on a frame-less Toyota minivan, hands crossing over his chest. “So what,” he drawls, “daytime's for mechanics and nighttime's for underage group dates?”

Derek sends him a scathing glare, and to his surprise, Stiles flinches.

“Don’t bother bringing up the part about ‘owning the place’” Stiles scoffs, “because, dude, that’s pretty insulting, to my intelligence.”

Derek looks at the car parts before him, now bringing a hand to twist a lid with a ratchet until tendons along his muscled arm jut. “Don’t call me dude.”

“Not the conversationalist kind of guy, are you?” Stiles muses, now shifting his weight to his other leg, “not much of a talker myself actually” –Derek glares heatedly his way at that– “no?” he cuts himself off, now standing upright, “and is this some sort of a regional thing? Are all the people here condescending dicks?”

“Depends on who we’re dealing with,” Derek gives him the once over to stress the hint. “No one likes a chatterbox, it’s not a regional thing, it’s common sense.”

“Rude.” Stiles bites out. “I’ll have you know I’m often told my company is enjoyable, I’m adorable, and hilarious.”

“Well, there you have it.” Derek straightens up, a smug smirk on his lips, “only a vexatious small thing would call himself hilarious, when, in fact, he’s not.”

“Woah,” Stiles takes a step towards the man, not yet invading his space, but he’s on it, “big words, big guy.” He comments, cat-like lips furling into a smirk.

“I’m sorry, you prefer ‘pesky little thing’?” Derek tilts his head, daringly.

“Well, this pesky little thing was going to give you a job,” Stiles says, shoulders shrugging slightly, “apparently, you don’t want it.”

“Why are you here?” Derek asks, letting out a weary sigh.

“Dave sent me,” he responses, voice flat. “I had car trouble and he didn’t have the spares I needed, said you did and could help me.”

As though on cue, Derek’s eyes travel somewhere beyond Stiles head before he looks at the said guy, “where’s your car?”

“Back at the motel’s parking lot.” He waves a lackadaisical over his shoulder, “battery’s dead.”

Derek nods absentmindedly, “I’ll get someone to tow it back here soon,” he says, now holding out a rough hand, “keys.”

Stiles uncrosses his arms and fumbles inside the side pockets of his brown pants, fishes out the keys and before he parts with them, he gives them a little squeeze then dumps them on Derek’s hand.

“Be careful with her,” Stiles beseeches, somberly; “she’s the love of my life.”

Derek, probably to irritate him, flings the keys somewhere over a table of tools in the side, “now leave.”

“Vito Corleone over there said you’re good at your job,” Stiles says with his eyes locked on the direction the keys went airborne to, and adds in undertone, “but I’m slowly starting to regret my decision to come here.”

“You can take your keys back,” Derek notifies, tightly; “I’m not desperate.”

Stiles’ defiant stare aims Derek’s, “I get that you’re upset about my trespassing last night but would it hurt to be nice for one sec–”

“Leave!” Derek hollers, cutting the other mid-sentence and almost tossing a wrench to make it more intimidating, as if the rumble in his throat hasn’t done enough by jolting Stiles up and sending him racing to the entrance like a bullet.

 

 

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” An over-weighed, bull-necked mid forty waitress taps at the table he’s picked inside this diner, a notebook and a pen in her chubby hands, gum in her mouth, and it’s seriously distracting when she chews on it like a camel.

“Um,” Stiles quickly lifts the menu placed in front of him, skims through it in a flash and orders some waffles and coffee, those are the only things he can afford if he’s planning to get his car fixed. Speaking of which, that mechanic, what a total dick! It’s true that Stiles broke into the man’s property, but it’s not like he was vouching for it, and if the man allowed him just a chance to explain, he’d understand that Stiles’ never been into this town before and he has no recollection of knowing to whom the land belongs, and he has more important stuff to worry about than mountain climbing at midnight. It’s strange, the way he collapsed in the motel only to wake up on the forest floor –woods, whatever, this whole thing is starting to sound plain ridiculous.

Waitress comes back with his orders and tells him to call if he needed anything, he thanks her, Darcie, yea that’s her name, and beams at her retreating from. She’s the only living thing in this town that has shown him some kindness, and that says a lot about the hospitality of this place.

“Oh, it’s you, from last night.”

Stiles shakes himself out of his deep monologue and looks up, finding the curly-haired guy from the woods already sitting down at his booth.

“The seat’s actually already taken so –”

The other guy pecks out a waffle from Stiles’ plate and drapes it on the table, “oh great, waffles, I’m starving.”

“–or not,” Stiles’ shoulders drop, “please, go ahead, ravish my breakfast” he says in monotone.

“I’m Isaac by the way,” he says on a mouthful, “Isaac Lahey.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” he introduces.

“I know, Scott told us.” He takes another large bite of the waffle, he has only two bites left to finish his so Stiles quickly grabs his share before it’s gone too.

“Wow,” he comments, oh lord these waffles are crunchy and good, he almost moans, “that Scott takes ‘sharing with the class’ to a whole new level, doesn’t he?”

“He also said you’re coming to the game.” He reports, now dumping what’s left of the cooked dough into his mouth.

“That’s not what I said,” Stiles’ head props up, eyes look askance in confusion, “I said maybe I’d come. It just means that it’s uncertain if it will happen or not.” He takes a sip of his coffee, “'Maybe' is more colloquial in this context, really.”

“Great, so see ya on the bleachers around 5 PM?” Isaac gushes, now snatching the mug to drink from.

Stiles rolls his eyes, is he invisible or what? “Gurgle my coffee too, it’s not like my name’s engraved on it or anything.”

Isaac slides from the booth and scurries away after flashing Stiles a gummy grin.

 

 

If cable TV channels are bad, try dubbed soap operas at 3 in the afternoon lying on bleached bed sheets with that hint of fading ozone generators odor still permeating the air. The only reason why Stiles isn’t jumping off a bridge is the mere knowledge that if he ventures outside when he’s on limited budget, he’s most likely to come back broke, and also the fact that there’s no bridge in this town. Okay so maybe there isn’t a lot to do here, but he walked past a bowling alley on his way to the motel, and that, that looked like fun.

**Knock, knock.**

Stiles mutes the volume of the TV, besides, Ricardo was dying anyway. “Who is it?” he opens the door after getting no reply and finds nobody outside, so he guesses maybe the sound came from the room next door. He closes his room’s and heads to the kitchenette, filling a glass with water.

**Knock, knock.**

Stiles swirls around with the glass still in hand, the worry slowly knitting a knot at the tip of his stomach, “I said” he repeats, doggedly, “who is it?”

Silence is the only response he gets.

Stiles’ eyes catch sight of a darkened silhouette of a tall face and long hair on the white blinds of his window that overlooks the hallway, and this time, his stomach somersaults, “who’re you?”

The person slowly lifts a hand, slim and long fingers, almost boney, slowly elongating sharp nails, and they ball just enough to knock on his window, two knocks. Stiles recoils to the back, glass of water falling to the floor with a shatter.

“I’m calling the cops!” He warns, hands frantically groping the table for his phone, “You hear me? I have them on speed dial so you’d better scram!”

The shape floats –fucking _floats_ away from the window and Stiles almost collapses with relief, when his neurons resume sending reassurances to his body parts, the door suddenly rattles in its jamb, the color fades from Stiles’ face, and a cold numbness spreads throughout his body starting from the legs.

“Stiles! It’s me, Scott!” Said guy gives the door another pound.

Stiles blows out an enormous sigh and lowers his head, he finds that somehow during his freak-out, his legs buckled under him and he is now on the carpet, back to the footboard of the bed.

“Stiles?”

“Coming.” He mumbles, too worn out to speak any louder as he levers up to his feet using the bed, tramps to the door and yanks it open.

A cheerful brown-eyed Scott carrying a plastic bag and wearing a black tank top and dark jeans beams at his sight, “hey man!” he greets, and Stiles thinks he’s just seen a tail wag but he blinks sporadically and his vision refocuses. It’s Scott’s fault for looking like a happy dog, but then that doesn’t have anything to do with what he’s just lived through, and he prays, he prays to God that the whole thing was just a figment of his overheated imagination, nothing more, it can’t be more.

“Hey, Scott” he greets back, “how’s it going?”

“Good,” he replies, and then his beam falls to a small frown after a swift sniff of the air, “are you okay? You look… spooked”

“Yea no, I’m fine,” Stiles scratches his nape in embarrassment, “what’ you doing here?

“Oh,” Scott raises the bag in front of him, “Lunch, mom made a lot and since you’re staying here I thought it’d be good to share it with you.”

“Still on the sharing, huh?” Stiles smirks, and when Scott cocks his, exactly like a dog, Stiles rolls his eyes and waves it off, “never mind,” he mumbles, “there’s a small park just around the block, let’s go.”

 

 

 

**TBC**


End file.
